Aflame
by Pyronic
Summary: Companion story to “It’ll Be Alright”. The story of the horrific manifestation of John’s powers, and the trials that followed when he is found by Xavier. AU. 2 of 3.
1. Aflame

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own X-Men. To go into a little bit of detail, this means I do not own the characters, objects, ideas, etc. found within X-Men. Marvel owns X-Men. If I **did **own it, you better be damn sure X3 would have gone a helluva lot differently._

_**WARNING: **I'm not exactly certain, but I think that, in order to fully understand the importance of the ending, **you have to read "It'll Be Alright" first. No, wait, I'm dead certain of it. Read it first. **_

_**Summary: **Companion story to "It'll Be Alright". The story of the horrific manifestation of Joh's powers, and the trials that followed. There is a rather significant twist at the end that sets up the sequel, so mind it._

_**Notes: **Sorry it's a day late. The main computer crashed, so I had to go out and buy a floppy drive for the laptop. Eek._

_**Warnings: **AU (so shush), language, violence, abuse, mentions of abuse, attempted suicide, thoughts on suicide, and death. o.O AKA not something you'll ever find sitting in the children's section in BAM. My bad (not). Enjoy._

_**Aflame**_

As was common in many a children's book, the scenery of Henderson, Ohio that Christmas Eve was tranquil and stunning. The deep blue sky was bare of all clouds, and the brightness of the full moon bathed the small town in its own natural nightlight. Each and every house was adorned with festive, colorful lights, and yard decorations that were far too big to avoid the eye of any passerby. The soft, five-inch deep snow that blanketed the frozen soil appeared more "cheerful rainbow" than "icy white", making it look good enough to eat. Christmas Tress, ever tall and fat, stood proudly in the front window of nearly every house, the presents beneath them in such abundance that anyone who saw them would wonder if the room even had a floor.

The Allderdyce family did not live in such a house.

Damien and Mary Allderdyce had been married for thirteen years, and not even their families knew how they had managed to last so long. Before their union, there had been love in the relationship – at least an emotion they had taken to be love. However, when Mary had become pregnant with their first child, Damien had grown incredibly distant, spending more and more time at his low-paying job than with his wife and unborn child. When their son, St. John, was born, the situation worsened. Damien never attempted to get to know his son, and only spoke with Mary in the confines of their room. Then the drinking had begun – beer, liquor, shots, vodka. Whatever alcohol managed to find its way into the sleazy man's grip was traveling down his throat within seconds. John had been just short of five when Damien first came home drunk.

His temper quickly became equipped with a short fuse, and his family suffered for it.

Though unspoken of, physical abuse was all too common in their home.

Thirteen-year-old John rested comfortably in the large orange recliner his mother had pulled from a dumpster last year, oblivious to the falling snow outside the living room window. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his bony chin resting upon them. His honey-colored eyes, the left of which still held harbor to the shadow of a painful bruise, were staring intently into the fireplace before him, the flames glimmering in their depths. His brunette hair was unkempt – appearing slightly greasy – but the lack of style allowed the fringe to form a shield around his face. His black jeans were worn to gray, and his navy blue and orange sweatshirt looked as though a fight with a cat would send it straight to the dump. Despite his ragged fashion choice, his features, whilst young, overran his clothing. They were roguish, allowing all to see his potential to become drop-dead gorgeous. A potential that would follow through faithfully, assuming circumstances did not touch him first.

"He's pulling a _'B'_, Damien!"

John did not so even much as flinch as his mother's infuriated voice cut through the interior of their small house, having grown quite accustomed to it. However, his shoulders slumped dejectedly as his spirits sank. Another Christmas – meant to be a peaceful family holiday – spent filled with yet more arguments and physical attacks. He should never have expected anything more, as this was the routine for every holiday. He sneered at his childish hopes, annoyed with himself, eyes glinting in the glow of the fire.

"He should be making an 'A'! The kid's fucking _stupid_, Mary!"

The teenager frowned slightly at the sound of his father's forceful bellow, feeling the sting of the harsh insult.

Their argument suddenly became muffled. Obviously his mother – the only sober of the two – had quieted them down so as not to give the neighbors yet another show. John suddenly had a strong desire to move back to their little home in Australia. At least there, the neighbors were more understanding than judgmental. He had lost count of how many times he had spent holidays in the company of strangers rather than his family.

"_I don't care_ how much time he needs to adjust!" Damien roared again. "His behavior is unacceptable! If we don't watch it, he's going to end up being one of those street kids who goes around killing people! You should hear what his teachers say!"

John had to snort at that one. In truth, he had never caused a problem at school. He was smart enough to keep his fights after hours and off campus, where he couldn't get in trouble for landing blows.

"You know what, Damien?" His mother's voice was weary now, and John felt a surge of protectiveness toward her. "I don't even know why I'm talking to you right now. Go sleep that liquor off, or go to a bar and get more. I don't care. Just get out of my sight."

It was quiet after that, and though he knew better, John was no longer able to contain his curiosity. Slowly, he stood up, turning his back on the comforting fire, and cautiously peeked into the kitchen, gaze instantly landing on his mother.

She was young – only thirty – and stunning. Her long blonde hair was a perfect contrast to her perfect, natural tan, and it was always encasing her slim body, like wings surrounding an angel. Her hazel eyes, which she had so lovingly bestowed upon him, were always bright, no matter which emotion she was experiencing. John was always proud of that fact that she was his mother.

She caught his eye, and gave him a reassuring smile that had his stiff shoulders relaxing. Casting a glance toward her intoxicated husband to see if he was paying attention, she tilted her head to the side, and nodded toward something, smile turning sly. Quirking an eyebrow, John followed her gaze, his mouth agape when his eyes landed on the designated object.

A medium-sized box, sitting beneath the counter chair, wrapped in glimmering paper.

A present.

A _Christmas_ present. His _first ever_ Christmas present.

He saw the beaming smile on his mother's face at his reaction. He watched with painful anticipation as she picked it up, brining it toward him with tantalizingly slow steps. She was teasing him, and was focusing on it, too. She didn't even notice Damien looking up as she passed him. A fatal move on her part.

"Sometimes I wonder if he's even my kid. Lord knows how much you whored yourself in Australia."

The reaction was instant.

John took an involuntary step backwards, eyes wide as his mother whirled around. The box hit the floor, making a noise he couldn't discern. His heart began to pound viciously as his parents stared one another down. His mother had too much pride to walk away from a comment like that. Both of their eyes were ablaze, Damien's slightly duller from the alcohol. Perhaps that was why he didn't see Mary raise her hand.

_Slap!_

There was a dull roar in John's ears as he watched Damien's head snap to the side. His veins felt as though they were burning, and his skin was practically itching from the heat. He saw Damien's fist clench, heard the knuckles crack, and the burning with him intensified as his mouth opened.

"Mom!" He shouted in warning. But it was too late. His mother turned toward him just as Damien's iron first came flying up.

_Crack!_

His mother's screech was that of terrible pain, and both of her hands reached up to clutch her face, which was already turning purple. John couldn't breathe. He knew Damien had abused his mother – he had seen the bruises – but watching such a vicious act enfold before him was entirely different. Seeing the only person who really meant a damned to him cowering away in pain caused something within John to snap and ignite. His entire body was like a raging inferno was the man reached out to strike his mother again.

"_Leave her alone!"_

Vaguely, he could register Damien whirling around at his outburst, face covered in shock that John had dared to challenge him. However, the monster's expression changed to terror as the fire within John's thin frame exploded.

He _saw _the fire from the hearth fly by him. He felt its raw power as it grazed his skin timidly, smirking as he felt no pain. His smirk turned into a cocky grin as he saw the orange flames circle his so-called father, and it did not falter as they engulfed the evil entity in one swift movement.

John did not focus on the cries of pain that escaped Damien's lips. Instead, he kept his attention on his creation. The fire was seductive, the control over it enticing. He found himself toying with it, pushing it forward, and then drawing it back. He stuck his fingers within its core, chuckling affectionately as he pulled them out unharmed. It was a high. One that he would never have to give up. One that would never hurt him. On that would protect him – that had _already _protected him. With another gleeful chuckle, he pushed it forward again. Too much, too hard. It surged.

His mother's cries of horror finally overran the roaring in his ears. With a gasp, John was pulled away from the fire and slammed back into the reality of his kitchen. The smell of smoke and gas assaulted him, and on instinct, he sought out his mother, who was still leaning on the counter, the flames nearing her with horrific speed.

He tried to pull them back, but his body was losing energy rapidly, fueling his betraying friend. He watched in horror was the flames leapt at his mother.

The last things John heard before he was engulfed in merciful oblivion were the cries of his mother, and a pained, high-pitched yelping.

The present had been a puppy.

**0o0**

"_. . . Amazing. Not a scratch on him! . . ."_

"_. . . No signs of smoke inhalation, either . . ."_

"_. . . Do you think he started the fire?. . ."_

"_. . . Without doubt. Pyrokinesis was obviously the assailant there . . ."_

" _. . . Will you tell him? . . ."_

" _. . . Yes, but for now, let him rest . . ."_

**0o0**

John's eyes opened slowly, a groan escaping his lips as intense bright light assaulted his delicate pupils. A frown was almost the instant expression on his face, as he realized the bed he was in was not his own. On further examination, he also realized that this was not his room.

'_What the hell is going on?' _Slowly, he sat up, wincing as his stiff muscles cried out in protest, and found himself staring at several hospital-like machines. _'But what would I be doing in a hospital?'_

And then the events of Christmas Eve came flooding back. The fight, the hitting, the fire, killing Damien …

Killing his mother …

"Good morning, St. John." John jumped at the loud, calm voice, his shock jerking back the tears that had started to come forth. His head jerked to the side, eyes widening a bit as he spotted an elderly, bald, wheelchair-bound man moving toward him, a grim smile in place. He pulled to a stop just a reached the bed, and locked their gazes. "Welcome to Xavier's School for Mutants."

**0o0**

For the seventh night in a row, for the third week in a row, he sat on the windowsill of his bedroom, legs dangling dangerously over the side, face impassive. He was fourteen now. He was dressed in all black, a convenient wardrobe to keep from being spotted by the annoying goody-goody that seemed to be in abundance within the Victorian-styled building.

Had circumstances been different, John was damn certain he would have enjoyed "Mutant High". From what he had observed, everyone was cool with everyone else, even if you looked like a piece of gum that had been chewed up and then covered in gunk. Powers were perfectly fine to show off and use, so long as it was only done on school grounds. You were free to be yourself, and that was something he had always wanted.

Had circumstances been different, Xavier would have come to his house and spoken with his parents about coming to the school. He would have had their blessing, would have come with his own things, and would have had them visit on parent weekends.

Had circumstances been different, John would have friends, and would have showed the teachers exactly what a class clown was. Hot-shot Bobby Drake wouldn't have stood a chance at such a title with him around.

But the circumstances were still the gruesome ones that they had been for the past two months that he had been here. He had murdered his parents. And that night still haunted his dreams every time he tried to sleep. So he had given the particular luxury up.

John wasn't stupid. He had heard the students in the hallway when they thought he wasn't around. They didn't refer to him as "the new kid", and never had. Apparently, secrets were just not things that were kept at Xavier's.

They called him "the murderer".

He found it fitting. After all, it was what he was, wasn't it? A murderer.

He never felt bad about killing Damien. Damien had been an animal, and you didn't murder animals. But his mother. _God_. John slammed his head against the pane of the window. She had been the only person who had ever tucked him in. The only person to hug him when he was sad, and cheer for him when he was happy. She was the only person who could say "I love you", and actually have it mean something to him. She had given up so much for him, had stayed with Damien so that he could have two parents, and how had he repaid her kindness?

He had killed her. Burned her. He had used his stupid "gift" to destroy his mother.

Tears sprang to his eyes, unwillingly, yet there was nothing he could do to stop them. They broke through the barrier of his eyelids without even a second of hesitation, traveling down his smooth face and dripping down onto the windowsill. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to see fire – it hurt to be forced to control it. Everything hurt.

Everything.

He took in a steady breath, blinking back his tears, and sighed.

As was his ritual, John's eyes, now turning a deep golden color, strayed down to the ground, eight stories below him. It was his fantasy. His salvation, in a cruel, yet relieving form. The only way to stop the pain – the only way to stop his gift. Something that would stop his heart, that would soothe his tired lungs, that would stop this hellish power from ever resurfacing. Killing two birds with one stone.

Or fall. Whatever.

For one quiet, suspenseful moment, he studied the ground below him. It was hypnotizing. He felt as though it were pulling him toward it, with a charming promise of no pain. Just relief. Sweet, sought after relief.

It was the perfect night for it. His roommate had gone out with the other students to some mall or something. They would be gone for a while.

No one would be there to see. No one would hear his terrified yell, should he choose to emit one.

John didn't think he would.

He pushed himself a little more over the edge, so that one small push would send him falling. His tears came back again, this time dripping onto the ground far below them. He took in a deep breath, and pushed.

'_I'm coming, Mom.'_

It wasn't as scary as he had thought it would be – this fall. It was taking a while to reach the ground, but he wasn't coherent enough to notice. The air was rushing over him, enveloping him, pushing him. His power was panicking, trying to search for any sign of a flame so that it could come out and cushion the fall. But its search was hopeless, and John could practically feel its grief as they flew by the third story window, and then the second. Here it came. His salvation. His relief. His gift would soon be gone, and John would be free to enjoy the afterlife without it coursing through his veins. With a sickening smile, he closed his eyes, and waited for the impact.

It never came. John gave a grunt of surprise as his body was suddenly jerked still. Slowly, his eyes opened, to see Professor Xavier once again smiling grimly at him.

"I think, John, that it's time we had a talk."

**0o0**

They sat in his office, void of all but one light, which came from a small silver desk lamp. John was wrapped in a blanket, curled up on one of the leather chairs, a mug of cocoa held tightly in his grasp. He had yet to look up at the professor, still angry that the man had interfered and stolen away his chance at freedom.

Xavier, it appeared, was not a fan of the silence. He cleared his throat, and maneuvered his chair so that he was directly in front of John.

"You did _not_ kill your mother, John."

Startled by his headmaster's words, the teenager's head jerked up. Xavier was staring at him with his cool blue eyes, expression informing him that he should know this. But all John could do was scoff at the assurance, and look back down at his drink.

"Well, unless there was some other pyro_maniac _in the room that night, you're wrong. But if there was, please tell me his name and address so I can show him _exactly_ the kind of pain my mother felt." Xavier sighed at the viciousness in his student's voice.

"Your power was just manifesting, John," he explained gently. "You lost control of it, and that's to be expected."

"_I killed my mother_!" John roared, throwing his mug to the ground, neither of them flinching as it shattered and soaked the Victorian rug.

"No, _you did not_," Xavier repeated firmly. "You lost control of your power, and it proved fatal. It was an _accident_, John. That's why I brought you here, so that you could gain that control, and nothing like what happened on Christmas Eve will ever happen again."

There was silence again, but this time, there was no anger to make tension. John's shoulders began to shake, and his body to quiver. Fresh tears, not unlike those from earlier that night, began to make there way gently down his face. He took in a shuddering gasp, and looked up at the professor.

"It _hurts_," he cried softly. "Every day, all the time. Every time I take a breath."

"I know," Xavier soothed, reaching out a hand and resting it on John's shaking shoulder. "You need to grieve. But I promise you, John, everything will be all right. If you give it a chance, it'll be alright."

John said nothing, simply staring at the telepath. But the words were taken in. The tears slowed their progression, and whilst they did not all together _stop_, they let up enough that he could give Xavier a watery, uncertain smile. It was returned, and Xavier withdrew his hand and held it out instead.

"Now, come on. I do believe we have some hot chocolate left in the kitchen."

And John's pain, though it would always be present, slightly receded.

**0o0**

He didn't know why he was doing this. It was a bad idea – one of _Xavier's_ bad ideas. As in not a good idea that John should be following.

And yet, here he was, in the Game Room, preparing to make a friend.

To _try_ and make a friend, anyways. Xavier's instructions still rang clear in his head.

"_Go up and introduce yourself to the first person you see."_

Of course that first person would just happen to be his roommate. A boy who had never so much as said "hello" to him in the past two months that John had been here, despite the fact that they shared a room and nearly every class. John eyed him warily, not sure he was ready to go through with this.

"_I'll make it two people tomorrow, John, if you don't go and say hi to him," _Xavier's voice warned in his head. The pyrokinetic frowned at the intrusion.

"_Buzz off, damn it," _he growled back mentally. _"I'm working on it."_

And with that, he strode up to his roommate with faux confidence, and thrust out his hand.

"Hi," he said, forcing his unease to stay out of his voice. "My name's John. Since we're rooming together, I thought I'd introduce myself."

For a moment, the other boy simply eyed the hand, as though he couldn't believe what John was doing. It was a pained sixty seconds, but just as John was about to drop his hand, the other boy smiled widely.

"Better late than never, eh?" He inquired, brown eyes sparkling at John's expression. He reached out a green hand and clasped John's. "Been waiting for two months for you to say something. The name's Mortimer, but you can just call me Toad."

**0o0**

Xavier and Jean Grey watched the scene from atop the second story hallway, one smiling triumphantly, and the other frowning with concern.

"You think this will solve everything, Charles?" Inquired Jean softly, watching the two teenagers talk excitedly. Xavier shot her a sideways glance.

"I know that John will need some counseling, but I have every bit of faith that a friendship with Toad, as well as with other students, will help his healing process." Jean remained unconvinced.

"His rage toward his father isn't gone, Charles. He feels no remorse for killing him."

"I know." Xavier's voice was saddened, and Jean instantly regretted her words. "Perhaps, with time, that will all change."

"And if it doesn't?" Jean couldn't help herself. "A close friendship with Toad could be fatal to any plans you have for John, Professor. He's emotionally all but destroyed. If Toad turns like we think he will, John will follow him."

Xavier did not reply to his protégé's warning, instead watching as his two students continued to build an everlasting friendship.

He could only hope that it did all work out alright.

_**Finished**_

_Well, I must admit, I liked writing "It'll Be Alright" better. Maybe because it was less complicated, or maybe because I hate killing people (uck). I don't know. But I don't think that this turned out too bad. Not great, but not too bad._

_Eh._

_Oh, by the way, the cast for the movie **Mageneto **thus far is as follows: Ian McKellen, Patrick Stewart, Rebecca Romijn, and (rumored) Tom Felton as Quicksilver, who is still rumored to be appearing in X4.Just a little tidbit I picked up that I thought you might like to know._

_Now, be good dears and click the review button, and talk to me. I'm suffering review-withdrawal. Haha._

_Adios!_

_Me_


	2. Epilogue

_**Disclaimer: **I do not own X-Men. To go into a little bit of detail, this means I do not own the characters, objects, ideas, etc. found within X-Men. Marvel owns X-Men. If I **did **own it, you better be damn sure X3 would have gone a helluva lot differently._

_**Summary: **Companion story to "It'll Be Alright". The story of the horrific manifestation of Joh's powers, and the trials that followed. There is a rather significant twist at the end that sets up the sequel, so mind it._

_**Notes: **I know that status is complete, but I needed to tie up a loose end. _

_**Warnings: **AU (so shush), language, etc. Don't rule out anything you saw in the first warning, ok?_

**_Epilogue_**

****

The night is the perfect time for both deception and truth. The darkness surrounds you, gives you the perfect cloak of protection. No one can see the drop of your façade, expect for those whom you choose to witness it. The night is Nature's way of letting her children have a chance at freedom, should they not already have it obtained.

Mortimer Toynbee was planning on taking full advantage of her compassion.

He knew John was watching him from the other bed as he packed, and felt a stab of guilt in the pit of his stomach. In the year it had been since St. John Allderdyce had come to the Xavier's school, the two of them had become the best of friends. Often times, Mortimer found his feelings toward the younger boy to be more brotherly than anything. Every time he heard anyone refer to the pyrokinetic as a "murderer", or anything else of the sort, the green-skinned mutant dealt the idiot a sharp lash of his tongue. In return of such kindness, anyone who poked at the color of his skin received a rather nasty surprise from John – a large, very shiny, and very painful, burn.

John and Mortimer. Allderdyce and Toynbee. Pyro and Toad. Thick as Thieves. As close as brothers. Finally splitting up, after a fun-filled year of mischief, mayhem, and more girlfriends than either could count.

It sucked, truly, that John would not come with him.

"How do you even know they'll take you in?"

Mortimer sighed as he finished stuffing the backpack he had stolen out of Bobby Drake's room earlier that night.

"Magneto's made the offer to me more than once, John," he whispered, for what was the millionth time within the past three hours. "He knows exactly how difficult it is for me in the world right now. How hindered my powers are here. He's promised to help me." A smirk formed on his face as the brunette snorted, and he allowed a small chuckle to escape his lips. "I'm older than you, _Pyro, _and therefore a helluva lot wiser. I know what I'm doing."

From behind his back, John rolled his eyes, though his eyes shown with fondness at the use of his codename.

"Only two years older, dipshit. Seventeen isn't exactly considered a "mature age"," he snapped back, grinning widely. The expression faded, however, as another thought came into place. "Now that you're leaving, they're going to put me in _Drake's_ room. They'll expect me to be all "buddy-buddy" with him."

Shaking his head, Mortimer closed the bag with a triumphant _zzziiiipppp_, and, throwing it over his shoulder, turned to face his roommate.

"Sorry, dork," he apologized insincerely, rolling his eyes as John shot him the bird. Quickly, he turned serious, nothing but concern in his voice. "You going to be alright with all these morons?" The pyromaniac instantly caught the mood change.

"I'll be fine," he assured. "I've got fire, and they've got what? Ice? Metal? I'll win, thank you very much."

Mortimer didn't appear very much eased.

"I wish you would just _come with me_."

There was an awkward silence that followed, the same kind that occursafter someone drags up an overused, unresolved argument. Mortimer immediately regretted saying anything, even though he knew that he wouldn't have been able to help himself, even knowing what he knew about John's feelings on the subject.

"You know I can't," John responded softly, looking down, and Mortimer sighed, the frustration he felt clear on his face.

"Because of that stupid dream."

"It's not stupid!" His friend hissed back in protest, golden eyes flashing. "It feels too real to be a dream, Mort. That girl is going through exactly what I went through. I'll be fucking _damned_ if I don't help her." The passion in the argument was nothing new to the green mutant, who simply stared the younger student down.

"And if it _is_ just a dream? What _then_, Pyro?" John looked back up.

"Just give me two years, Mort," he pleaded desperately. "Just two years. I swear I'll follow you after that, alright? Just give me some time to see if it's real, ok? Besides, I owe Xavier at least that much."

The eyes were what made the older teenager cave. With a despondent groan, he hoisted the backpack further and made his way toward the door. He stopped just short of it, and reached out and clapped a hand on John's heated shoulder.

"Take care, alright? Xavier's not a bad guy, contrary to what you hear me say about him. He'll help you, just like he always has. But you find Magneto if you need me, alright? I mean it, _St. John_."

"I understand, _Mortimer_." They both grinned sad, tight grins, and Mortimer released John's shoulder to dig into his pocket. The pyrokinetic's confused look changed into one of delight as his self-proclaimed older brother withdrew a shining, Jaws adorned Zippo lighter, and tossed it to him.

"Now you don't have to go looking for any fires. Just do me a favor and don't burn down the mansion." John held the lighter protectively. The slamming of a door caught both of their attention, and Mortimer sighed again. "Time to go. I mean what I said, Pyro. Take care of yourself."

"You too … Toad." He watched as his friend made his way to the door and opened it. Golden eyes glinted sadly in the darkness as the green-skinned seventeen-year-old slipped through the door.

"Adios, little brother."

It wasn't until Toad had left that John finally clicked the open, peering down at it with a forlorn gaze.

_**Swish, flick. Swish, flick.**_

That girl better damn well be real.

_**End** _

_There, tied up the loose end. Now, I have to go. My mom wants the laptop. So be good little dears and click the review button and talk to me._

_See ya!_

_Me_


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